


Sonata Romantica

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok, I have said before, in general I never do manage to get to graphic sex. It just doesn't happen. It's not a moral objection, it's not a matter of ignorance, innocence, or apathy. It just never seems to occur within my stories. That said, I've been trying to get to something graphic for some time, for the  )%*CE# bloody-bedamned practice. Just like there's reason for attempting to write hand-studies, there's reason to at least attempt erotica/porn/graphic sex scenes. </p><p>So I just decided to heck with it. This is free-standing, it's just sex. I'm hoping it's a) reasonable to imagine in character, b) reasonably erotic and effective as such, c) makes sense. Lord knows if I succeeded. As indicated, this just isn't where my writing usually ends  up.</p><p>Those who don't like M/M or erotica/porn: you are warned. Mycroft. Greg. Explicit. Established relationship--experienced lovers. Non-penetrative. Mutually satisfying. Orgasms occur. If that's not clear enough warning, read it again and think it through....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata Romantica

 

 Mycroft was about to roll over when Greg pinned him in place with a single hand splayed softly but firmly in the small of his back. Mycroft shivered.

He couldn’t express what that single action did to him. He was not, so near as he could determine, anything in the realm most often intended by the term “sub.” Neither was he a dominant, in the normal meaning of the word, though he could very much enjoy taking command of the sex act, exerting mind and body to control outcome, to maximize pleasure for both himself and his partner. Still, though he could delight in being in charge, there was something infinitely, ravishingly seductive about ceding command at Greg’s firm touch.

That was what that strong hand meant. In a real struggle, Mycroft was fairly sure he would always win. His combat training was more extensive, his size and weight and reach greater than Greg’s, his mind faster. If they were to contest this moment, Mycroft would win—and in winning, lose. It was better, so much better, to relax under Greg’s hand and wait, heart pounding, to see what his lover had in mind.

Mycroft tended to see love-making as an intricate campaign, a web of strategies, tactics, advances and retreats, all aimed at a single glorious conclusion. He had come to the conclusion, though, that Greg appeared to see it more as Sherlock might see playing a solo on his violin: something to coax from still strings, draw lovingly out of mute wood, spinning bow strokes into magic, until the full arc of the melody hung on the air.

Greg played Mycroft like Sherlock played his Strad—and Mycroft loved every second of it. Sherlock had insisted once, fretfully, peevishly, after a long period of activity that kept him from his music, that his violin wanted to be played. Mycroft had scoffed. He could, in theory, concede that the instrument might be better kept in condition with regular playing—he could accept that frequent use might in some way affect the lifeless materials, altering them through the heat of hands, the vibration of the music itself. He had not been able to imagine, though, what it might be like to yearn to be played, to adore being brought to life by a skilled musician.

If he were a cello, he’d want Greg Lestrade to play him, though. He’d want to settle between his legs, lean back against his shoulder, and allow Greg to pick out each note, bow each chord. He’d croon and hum and sob for the man who played him so well.

Greg kept that one hand in place, his other hand sliding down Mycroft’s thighs, shifting them slightly to give him better access. He stroked slowly up Mycroft’s inner thigh, then—a long, loving caress that ended with Mycroft’s arse cradled lightly in a cupped palm. Greg’s fingers inched down, teasing, exploring, stroking. The motion wasn’t invasive or penetrative, yet, but instead a supple seduction, begging for response.

Mycroft sighed a note of longing, and was rewarded with another coaxing caress. He shifted minutely, opening himself, providing Greg with more space to work. In response, his lover cradled Mycroft’s balls, weighing them gently, rolling them under his palm. Clever fingers reached forward and stroked the base of Mycroft’s cock, rubbing firmly.

Mycroft knew his role in this—his obligation to the act. He forced his own reserve aside, refusing to hold back his murmur of desire. The instrument must not lie mute, but sing…

“Like that, love?”

“Yes…” His breath had begun to catch, pant, hitching unevenly as excitement seeped through him. “Uh…yes…”

He heard Greg’s breath catch in response.

It had taken him time to understand that, where some lovers wanted to be lavished with touch and action, Greg hungered for his lover’s reactions and responses. Like the skilled musician, the reward was the music itself, the victory of a passage well-played, the sob of a perfect note held indefinitely, dominating the heart. It wasn’t easy for Mycroft. When he was able to set his reason aside, he was responsive, but even in response he tended to silence: he was a reserved man, in all things muted and muffled, hiding from attention. Giving Greg the sight, sound, show of his response demanded a strange courage made acceptable only because Greg both reveled in it—and knew the price his lover paid for it.

“Oh, God, love, that’s sweet,” Greg hummed, touching Mycroft again. Mycroft could hear the tenderness in his voice. “So sweet…” He slipped his hand from Mycroft’s back, sliding it under his belly, pulling softly up. “Come lean on me?” He eased himself between Mycroft’s legs, kneeling as he drew his lover back against him.

They leaned together a moment, Greg’s knees nested inside Mycroft’s; Mycroft’s thighs flanking Greg’s. Greg’s erection pressed against Mycroft’s bum, nestling hard and solid in the cleft. Mycroft leaned back against him, drawn long against his lover’s chest. He tipped his head back, letting it fall against Greg’s shoulder, held steady against the turn of his neck. He could feel Greg’s pulse flutter against his temple, against his cheek, against the angle of his jaw. Greg held him firm, arms around him, hands roaming steadily.

Greg turned his head, leaning into Mycroft’s neck, kissing and suckling the tender skin, rumbling his hunger. Mycroft turned his head aside, offering more, baring his long throat. When Greg’s hands came up to his nipples and rolled them, pinched them, teased them, Mycroft whined in pleasure, shuddering.

“More…”

Greg pinched harder. Experience had taught them both that as Mycroft became more aroused, he needed stimulation beyond what would have been painful ordinarily—not a need of pain, but simply a need for more touch, more pressure, to communicate through the waves of adrenalin.

Mycroft groaned, as the pleasure swept through. Groaning, he felt Greg gasp and buck up against him, rocking. Greg groped with one hand, finding Mycroft’s, drawing both hands to Mycroft’s cock.

“Set the pace, eh?” Greg curled his hand around Mycroft’s, until both hands wrapped around Mycroft’s erection.

Mycroft established the rhythm, then relaxed as Greg caught it and kept it going. The blend of the familiar and the unexpected, the habitual and the novel, was wonderful. His own fingers ensured the necessary sensations—Greg’s provided tantalizing, vivid little variations on familiar themes.

Behind him Greg rocked on, matching Mycroft’s own beat. Mycroft could feel the moisture slicking his buttocks.

“Need lube?”

“Nnnnn…no.”

“Good?”

Greg grunted and gasped. “God. Good. Yes.” His free arm wrapped tight around Mycroft’s ribs, pulling him close. He turned his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, kissing and licking, breath panting over smooth skin.

Mycroft snaked his own free arm up and around Greg’s neck, pulling his face even more firmly to his shoulder. “Love this. Love it…”

It was a wonderful, terrible blend of embarrassment and freedom. To be stretched upward across his partner, open, unprotected by sheets or the turn of his own body, or even by Greg rising high over him, shielding him from view—he felt so very naked.

He knew Greg looked at them like this—looked over the curve of Mycroft’s shoulder, down the long line of chest and belly stretched in an open run from throat to navel to crotch to knees. He knew Greg watched their hands rise and fall together. He knew he was seen…that the sight roused his lover…that he was not only Mycroft, but Mycroft-as-erotica, posed in bold and erotic debauchery, everything open to view. He knew that adding voiced moans, gasps, rising whines as his orgasm pressed closer and closer only added to the pornographic effect for the man behind him.

For him the effect was both embarrassing and delightful, each feeding off the other, each edging him closer to release.

“Close,” he gasped. “Close.”

“With you…” Greg rocked harder, cock sliding in slick moisture, riding his own pre-ejaculate. He held Mycroft so tight, his arm around him a solid band. “So good… Come for me, love…” His fingers tightened around Mycroft’s cock, teasing, tugging…

Mycroft erupted, his moan a driving crescendo. His fingers locked in the hair at the back of his lover’s head. The orgasm rattled his bones as he spurted, creamy, warm, thick. The scent rose up as their hands spread the jism up and down Mycroft’s cock, as he continued to thrust.

Behind him Greg bucked up. He’d ducked down, face fully buried, and he bellowed as he came, roaring with it. The heat of him gushed over Mycroft’s bum, between his cheeks, adding a final sexy, filthy, sweet element to the last fading waves of Mycroft’s orgasm.

Then it was done. Mycroft stayed as he was, leaning against his lover. His hand stroked, softly, along the nape of Greg’s neck, and the fingers of his other hand tangled in Greg’s, ignoring the sticky slip, paying attention only to the gentle aftermath.

Greg’s arm tightened around him again, a hug, and he rubbed his face over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Yeah. Good.”

“Good,” Mycroft agreed.

He had been played—a cello in Greg’s arms, moaning in answer to Greg’s hands, letting himself respond to Greg’s mastery. Other nights they played other ways. Other nights it was Mycroft who led the way, set the pace, guided them to their final satisfaction. Tonight, though, had been good.

“We’ll have to do that again, sometime,” Mycroft said, reluctantly easing himself out of Greg’s embrace. He grabbed the moist flannel already set on the night stand by the bed, and cleaned himself and Greg’s hand, before handing his lover the soft cloth. When they were both clean—or cleaner, anyway—he turned and drew his lover down to the mattress beside him, lying on his belly with an arm tossed over Greg’s body.

He shivered in contented memory as Greg splayed one hand over the small of his back, and pinned him firm against the bed. Sometimes it was good to be the instrument played, not the player…


End file.
